Potato Friends
by CoffeeAndSunshine
Summary: Introduced through sorrow, and still good friends, even now.


_2015_

Amid the rich, fair, wild greens of this country, Germany was isolated. From his clipped, and crisp mannerisms, to his disciplined, military posture, and even the steely grey of his collared dress shirt, he blatantly appeared to be a stranger.

Among the milling number of people, not quite enough to be called a crowd, he sat soberly on a bar-stool, and waited.

A copper-haired youth made his way slowly though the drunk excitement, and slumped casually into the seat next to him.

"You didn't wear green," was all he said.

Germany sighed, almost inaudibly. "I didn't have any." he said finally, in his deep, baritoned accent.

Ireland laughed heartily. "I was only teasin' you" he said lightly, motioning to the bartender who seemed to understand, and brought out two glasses, resting them near the men, on a smooth wooden counter.

Moments later, drink firmly in hand, the singing began. After three verses of a beer-soaked "Oh Danny Boy," Ireland dragged himself away from the music. Germany waited stoically. A lively folk-jig played, but no one sang.

"So, how have you been?" asked the slightly intoxicated Irishman.

"Fine. Yourself?" Germany's response was quick, and concise.

"Eh. Let's not talk about politics or economy, or any of that rot. I guess otherwise, I've been fine."

Germany nodded approvingly, and sipped his drink.

"Brothers-" Ireland stopped to grin at the look of annoyance on Germany's face, "Hard to deal with sometimes."

"Yes." It was an emphatic agreement.

"It's my day, and my kin didn't even show up. If they did, they'd just leave a mess, right?" Ireland laughed, and Germany smiled politely.

Ireland swilled another gulp of beer, and smiled broadly, leaning with an uncertain hand on his friend's shoulder. "This sure beats American grog, any day, I'll tell you. We must have been desperate." he whispered the end, and his eyes seemed to drift off, unfocused.

* * *

_1901_

Germany pulled the coat tighter around his arms and shoulders. He gazed out, around the boat. It was crammed with people, looking out over the murky, grey waters, their eyes filled with hunger, and fear. One particular man, bone-thin and slumped wretchedly against the rocking sides of the ship caught his eye. He was different from the others. Something about his demeanor, and that look of sheer and utter dejection was different. No one looked at him, even in disgust. They were all in the same boat.

Germany hadn't realized that he'd been staring, until the pair of distant green eyes locked with his own.

Without thinking, Germany smiled a little. It was meant to be comforting, but seemed more forced, as if his own mouth had forgotten the expression. The other didn't smile back, though from his face Germany somehow had the thought that he used to, often. Something in that freckled, pale face was mischievous, and meant to laugh and grin. Maybe that was it. He almost looked heartbroken, but it was uncharacteristic to his features.

Every person on this boat had known hunger. Deep, biting hunger. He could see it etched in their faces. Years of holding on desperately to what little they had, rationing what would grow. His own people were the same. His own people were also traveling across this ocean to the land of prosperity. Except that no one here wanted to go. No one wanted to leave their native homeland.

Roughly, the boat lurched, and people standing, out-looking the sea, clutched at the ship's sides. The orange-haired man dropped his gaze to the floor, and muttered in a fevered whisper underneath his breath. Soon, it was loud enough to distinguish from a murmur. It was not words, but song. His voice scratched over the notes, quietly, and reverently, as if he was praying. His voice was a lighter, fairer, tenor-toned mellow sound, and growing stronger as they careened, and moments passed like hours. Each second, Germany thought he could hear the words clearer, until they were understandable. At this moment, as he heard the first real word that sounded like something he understood, a spark lit in the back of his mind. _Pages of folded, yellowed sheets. Music. The other man had given it to him with a rare smile, saying that on this occasion, he had found solace in a particular Irish folk-tune._ This transcription was in German, but the man sang it in English. Germany could see the notes and words in his head.

_Sweet Power! That on a foreign strand canst thou the rough soldier's bosom move, with feeling of his native land, as gentle as an infant's love._

Germany began to sing as well, quietly at first. His voice filled in the empty line of the second voice. A deep baritone, harmonizing softly with the higher part. Gradually, they looked again at each other, and consensually grew louder, together. Other people who recognized the piece joined in, some in the higher part, others joining him in the lower accompany. It filled the air around the boat, and even the buffeting wind and sound of waves or gulls could not be heard over the strain.

_Du, der die Stirn der Kin der shaar. With thistle, leek, or shamrock crown'd._

Germany alternated between the two languages, not knowing enough to sing the song fully in English, but feeling obligated to do so when he could. _Some people did not seem to know the tune itself, but uttered the words alone. _He noted others who, not knowing a word of the English language, sang it fully in German, but he could not join them. They were his people, but also he felt that he had borrowed this song from the Irish, and so he owed them that at least.

_The waves of the ship leaving his own country, filled entirely with his own people had been dashed against the rocks. The survivors waited, cold and damp, and starving and hopeless, waving out their sea-soaked rags to the empty water, waiting desperately for any passing vessel. Someone had a red shawl, and after many cold, uncountable hours, they had hailed a passing boat. Crowded already, some passengers of this ship from Ireland glared as the German immigrants were dragged up from the rock to which they had clung, and crawled, soaked onto the deck. The two sides had separated like water and oil, as they all waited in hunger for the shores of America._

Now they were joined, if only in song.

The young man smiled, and Germany could see that, yes, this was the most natural thing in the world for him. A wink, and he was sure that the man had disappeared, only to reappear at his left side within an instant.

"You're like me, aren't you?" he asked.

"In what way?" Germany responded, though he had already felt the answer.

"You're Germany, and I'm Ireland. Pleased to meet you, despite the circumstances." his voice was painfully cheerful.

"The same to you." Germany said shortly. Ireland, as he had suspected, was another nation. Germany winced, and he thought of the pain. Starvation was never pleasant for their kind, but the extent of this Irish famine must have been excruciating.

The other seemed to sense his pity, and forced a wider grin onto his face. "It's all right. My brother isn't helping it, but I'll be fine. Always am, always will be." Even as he said this, his legs were shaking, his hand trembled, and his fingers clenched white. "Potatoes all died this year. What about you?"

Germany thought for a moment. "Revolution, and food shortage."

"Ah." Ireland nodded, in a knowing way. "It is kind of shameful though, going to America for help. I can't wait to go back home." He said it in a guilty way, as if he knew that while he might return home after it passed, many other people would never see the shores of their homeland again. Germany had the same thought. It had felt selfish at first, to leave. It still felt selfish, but he had managed to ignore it.

"Don't worry. They'll be fine. America is a kind nation, and he will help us all." Germany said. It was rehearsed, but true enough. America was kind, but Germany worried about the American people, and the terrible discrimination his own people might face. He ignored this thought as well.

Ireland looked far away again, his eyes traveling to a distant place in the dark, cloudy sky. "Beethoven was a great man. You have no idea how honored I was. I still am." He referred to the song.

"Mmm." Germany agreed, remembering how the composer had explained the origin and meaning of this song. "He admired your folk music." he said.

"Go raibh maith agat!" Ireland laughed again.

"Danke." Germany said.

"You know English?" Ireland asked, abruptly.

"Not as much as I should." Germany said politely.

"Well, I'd say you're pretty good, although you don't talk much. You've seemed to understand everything I've said thus far, so I'd say you're just being modest. If you need any help though, I wouldn't hesitate to say that we have another three days on this ship. I could scholar you."

"If you'd like that."

Ireland smiled. Then, his hands went to his stomach, and he cringed, sinking to the floor. "Let's start." he gasped, trying not to sound pained. Germany knelt down beside him.

"Are you sure you don't want some water?"

"It's fine." he strained.

"I'm getting you some." Germany decided, cutting through the crowd. It wasn't hard, because of his height, and most people didn't stand in his way for very long. Finding a sailor, he convinced him that the water was needed, and quickly returned to the other's side.

Ireland didn't see him. His eyes were closed, and tears streamed from the corners. He bit his lip.

Germany approached, and crouched on the floor again.

"Water. Drink it." he commanded.

Ireland brought a hand from his stomach to brush his face, and then took the water. He brought the tin- cup to his lips, and sipped it slowly. A burn filled his stomach.

"Thank you." he whispered.

Germany hesitated.

Another laugh. "You say 'you're welcome'. Try it."

"You're welcome." Germany said slowly.

"Good." Ireland opened an eye. "Now, how are you with verbs."

"It would be depending-"

"Ah, you're wrong already. We'll have to work on that."

"After you sleep." Germany said firmly.

"Right. Sleep..." Ireland drifted, "I should try that sometime..." He had already leaned back into the wall, and his eyes closed again. Soon, he slept with both hands fiercely folded over his middle.

Germany sighed, and turned to the ocean, spread like a field as far as the eye could see.

* * *

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!


End file.
